The feeling comes often. I think about the problem, and I want to throw up. I think about it and something in my stomach rebels and wants to let everything I have eaten out. I don’t know. I don’t know anymore. There used to be a map for what was going on in my life, there used to be some sort of guide, however slight, but now there is nothing. I have to swim and deal with what is happening on my own. On my own is not enough. Shoulder. I want to cry long and hard on somebody’s shoulder. Not possible. Once, not long ago, I let it all out one Sunday evening. I watched a 60 Minutes episode and they were interviewing people in Ohio who were in danger of losing their homes to foreclosure. I remembered my foreclosure in another state and I just started crying. I couldn’t stop. Now, 7 years later, I am losing another place to live. The price of homelessness cannot be measured in dollars and cents. It is a very high price that I am paying—that I have paid—in emotional and psychological pain.











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